


astringent

by cosmicqueer



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, time traveling gays, with a dollop of recovery on top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8124850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicqueer/pseuds/cosmicqueer
Summary: Chloe had an attitude that could make the world fall to its knees. The Earth would beg, “How can someone be so beautiful?” and Max would hook her arm around Chloe’s and whisk her away, gliding across the ballroom towards an inevitable fate, only looking back over her shoulder to answer, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> am i late to the party or what. these vignettes have been in the works for far too long. what can i say, im a natural at procrastination. regardless, i hope u enjoy!!!
> 
> a forewarning: this is an in-detail character study of max’s psychological well-being branching off from the sacrifice chloe ending (w/ the kiss) and onward. it deals with possibly sensitive themes (check tags!!) so proceed with caution. ur health is more important than reading this. Please take care of urself

Chloe died on a Monday afternoon.

Outside, the sun was shining, filtering through the dormitory windows and the turning leaves of the trees, dusty orange and rusted red. It bathed the front lawn in a soft glow, warming the grass that had recently been trimmed. Flowers curled up in the soft breezes and insects patiently awaited the season to officially end so they could cocoon with one another, safe and sound in their winter home.

Inside, a frightened girl who was given too much to do and, ironically, not enough time to do it, sat in the corner of the bathroom with her own shaking hands covering her mouth. The bullet was faster than she could ever be, faster than she ever was, and it raced after her girlfriend, her _best friend_ , through every universe she created and strung together with a fine silk thread, meant to trip up her enemies and entangle their limbs in the invisible knitting. Each world was carefully crafted, a kaleidoscope of parallels all occurring at once, the thin strings of time protecting the one person always in need of nurturing, but she missed the ones who needed it most to stop this all before it begun. In the end, she let herself and others get caught in the web her tiny spider legs had woven.

Her lover’s body hit the ground in slow motion, crying out in agony as the bullet ripped through skin and organs while reaching out towards her, she knew it, she could see it, replaying again and again behind her eyelids from the first time she failed to save the stranger in the bathroom. It seemed like a million years away but was exactly this moment in time, repeated. She wanted it to be a million years away, so maybe in this lifetime she could find a way to stop it.

Regardless, she did not know that outside her time-warped prison, the sun was shining on autumn leaves and slowly yellowing grass that twirled in the wind. She only felt chilling comprehension as the pistol went off and clattered to the tile, her own gut-wrenching sobs causing her knees to buckle.

Maybe if she had been lucky enough, the boy with the voices in his head and the tears on his cheeks would have shot her too, so she and Chloe could lie on the grimy bathroom tiles next to one another and hold each other’s lifeless hands. Together, forever. Just like they promised each other that afternoon on the train tracks with the humming gnats and drooping wildflowers.

It’s funny how promises can be broken even before they’re decided upon.

 

* * *

 

Max remembered every moment of the funeral. Sometimes, it’s the only thing she could think about, the only memories that come to her when the name _Chloe Price_ flickered in her mind, like the dying flame of a lighter. She remembered being numb, mainly, and passively accepting condolences from time to time. The words slithered in through one ear and gouged their fingers into her mind – _you didn’t save her, you_ couldn’t _save her, look at what you’ve done_ – before gnawing on her eardrums on the way out the other side. The people that spoke them made her feel furious. Even Warren’s gentle apology and reassuring hug poured gasoline on the fire.

She wanted to scream. That entire day, she wanted to stand up and stomp her feet and shout at everyone, every single person who dared to speak the words _“I’m sorry for your loss.”_ She wanted to demand to know how they can say all these wonderful things about the girl she loved, but couldn’t bother to stay by Chloe’s side. But then again, wouldn’t that be hypocritical?

It was like a slap in the face, all these uncaring, nameless people who came to look upon the dead girl, to defile her final image while Max stood alongside David and Joyce by the coffin. Everybody who passed by had their microphone fingertips poised and ready, prepared to cut-paste-copy every syllable that left the Price family’s mouths, start another small town round of _he said, she said,_ about the blue haired daughter who was shot in the school restroom.

This was a wrong that Max wanted to right, but had no control over, like most things that had happened recently. So brave, and so selfless, Chloe had been, to give up everything she could have had with her best friend and instead sacrifice herself to save hundreds, maybe thousands of lives. And for what? For these hungry eyes to feed on the pain that shone in her mother’s? Then continue on, thoughtless of the humanity Chloe had been cable of, as clueless as nature itself?

Max hated the sneaky pleasantries for causing the ringing in her head that evening, the constant buzz that kept her right on the edge between sanity and hysteria, grounding her yet forcing her to confront the truth and discard the lies. But if she experienced something, in this life or not, during this timeline or another sequence of events, how can it be false? Why can she have Chloe alive in one universe but be forced to witness her death in the one she was consciously living in?

It wasn’t fair. But, as Max had learned through trial and error and error and error, most things were not fair. All she could do was be thankful that the funeral was closed casket. Sleeping Beauty would now never be awakened and the guests had no say in it.

 

* * *

 

She no longer blamed Nathan, how could she? At first, he was who she pointed all of her fingers and all of her toes, determined to be furious at someone, _anyone_ , for the death of her lover; the one person she had traveled through future and present and past over and over again just to have the chance to hold one last time.

Nathan may have pulled the trigger but he was scared, just like Max and Chloe, and he was being used, like a chess piece that could be moved around at the player’s will. As if a vulnerable, teenage boy was something you strategize how to win the game with. He was the fancy rat whose owner taught how to run and spin the wheel woven out of barbed wire; told to _take a gamble, don’t be shy, see if you win the prize._ Like he was a pawn.

In the courtroom, after Max was questioned and allowed to return to her seat, Mr. Jefferson was called to the stand. It made her sick to her stomach to sit there and listen to the vile words pouring out of Mark, like he was a broken faucet who refused to be fixed until everything leaked out. His glasses glinted in the low hanging lights and his mouth curled into a cruel grin around his sentences, lips pulled back to expose his teeth and gums – proving that, unlike in Max’s nightmares, he didn’t have fangs he used to chew up little boys and girls and spit them back out.

Max, perched at the edge of her seat, listened. Watched intently. Processed what was occurring in her surroundings. Tried her hardest to keep the bile from rising in her throat at the thought of what happened to Kate, Nathan, and Rachel, and in the future what could have happened to herself, Victoria, and _Chloe_ , which just started another train of destructive thought. From that point on, she kept her mind turned off and her eyes switched on.

She supposed her gaze must have been burning holes into the back of Nathan’s neck during the trial, what with the way he kept itching at the skin of his throat that she had once wanted so badly to wrap her hands around. He twitched at every too loud sound, every movement he caught in his peripheral vision, like he was expecting a cage door to slam down closed at any minute. It wasn’t until Mark was asked about Nathan’s role in the crimes committed against those countless young women ( _“Correction,”_ Mark had said, _“they’re subjects.”_ ) did she fully realize that it was not facing a sentence that scared the boy, it was facing his mentor.

Luckily, the trial didn’t last much longer after Nathan, trembling and blinking rapidly, was called to the stand, and confirmed everything Mark said and more. He bowed his head low as he told his side of the story, explaining the details dully in comparison to his teacher, whose elaborate vocabulary was put to good use during his chance to speak. Nathan’s snout twisted and his ears flattened against his head, while he worried his squeaky mouse tail between his pink hands. When he began scratching at the insides of his arms and babbling incoherently about the effects of the drugs and the pain that almost ripped him in half, that radiated throughout his body when he was rendered too helpless to fight back, the judge thought it time for a recess.

Nathan Prescott was given a long probation and the extensive psychological treatment he should have received years ago. The jury deemed Mark Jefferson guilty. Case closed.

 

* * *

 

The scream that clawed its way up Max’s throat was what woke her.

Her sheets were a soft cotton that smelled like home, reminded her of happier times, and kept her warm on the coldest nights. But in that moment, they felt suffocating, twisting around her body and encasing her in a mummified prison, permanently left to dwell on her own mistakes as vines branched around her mind and strapped her to the mattress. Her blunt nails tore at the fabric, ripping it away from her snap-stick knees and lungs, gasping for breath like she was running from something or someone.

Images flashed across her vision even as she tried to blink them away, mind moving too slow to comprehend them, always too slow, always dragging her down, always two steps behind in solving the mystery. _Chloe, Chloe, Chloe,_ her nerves chanted, igniting the chemicals in her brain, soft, ocean blue sweeping behind her eyelashes. Her fingers twitched, her blood crackled with an unspoken desire, a need to do what she promised herself to never try again. No matter how hard she attempted to smother the idea, her brain flailed and fought back with thoughts of the impossible.

Maybe she could fix it, for real this once; rewind and erase everything, all of it, just like she’s done a hundred times, but instead throw herself in between the bullet and its target. One life for another, right? Wouldn’t that satisfy the universe?

Wasn’t it worth the chance? Wasn’t her best friend worth taking that risk?

Frantic half-sentences and unfinished plans tossed themselves around in her baby doll head, ricocheting off her porcelain skull and rattling her teeth. Her glass eyes twirled 'round and 'round trying to follow the course of them all, but soon it became too much, too fast, too soon, and she had to make it stop, _please make it stop._ Her hollow limbs felt too heavy to continue sitting upright, but if she laid back down she would combust into so many pieces that she couldn’t be glued back together. At that point, it sounded rather appealing.

 

* * *

 

Max’s legs were stretched out in front of her, arms propping her body up as she sat on the wooden plank of the familiar train tracks. There were no horns blaring, no screaming girls, no sparks flying and bodies shattering like a ceramic dish from her grandmother’s cabinet. It was peaceful, even though the inside of her mind was hectic.

Her body was beginning to ache from the awkward positioning of her tired limbs, and she thought it time to stand up, walk away, and dust off the memories of this place. The other side of her – the irrational, deranged part that couldn’t tell night from day anymore as it all bled together and felt the same, it was the same reoccurring pain – told her to lie back down, breathe in the cool air, and _wait_. She refused to think about what exactly she would be waiting for.

Although, if that was the only way to be with Chloe, she doubted her muddled head would always remember to view those bargains as useless. The swirling thoughts clambered over one another, reaching out towards her, trying to touch her, gasping in pain as she blatantly turned away from them. Everything she attempted was absolutely useless, and anything she would ever do to try and fix this wouldn’t bring Chloe back, she just had to accept that, had to realize that this is the path they had chosen. Together, forever. Maybe one day.

For the time being, Max carried on down the tracks, and pretended she couldn’t hear the shrieking in the back of her head.

 

* * *

 

She sat on the bed, sunlight carving a piece of the wall into soothing pink hues. The dust migrated along the air, bouncing and climbing higher and higher to an unseen purpose that was important nonetheless. The cardboard boxes surrounding her were labelled in elegant, looping handwriting, obviously Joyce’s doing. Besides that, all that remained in the room was empty furniture and, in the farthest corner of the ceiling, a spider spinning a web made of silk and good intentions.

Max didn’t know if that made it harder to think about the emptiness of the room and the way it matched her chest, or easier.

Her body was rigid and still, afraid that moving would upset the atmosphere and turn things grey and sour and lonely. Even though the boxes were the only things there to keep her company, she appreciated their presence, a steady reminder of the girl she loved and lost and fought for, again and again, over and over. It didn’t matter whether or not David and Joyce packed up her things and hid them away and scrubbed the walls clean of her graffiti – Chloe had been there, and she was never leaving.

The tears welled up before Max could stop them, carving paths between her freckles before falling to her lap, tasting of sweetness and salt. She wanted to open the boxes and display everything inside them, preserve the space as a museum so she could admire the distinct and offensive style that was reserved for Chloe; saved for midnight blue that shifted into pale skies, quirking lips, inked skin, an attitude that could make the world stop and stare and fall to its knees. The Earth would beg, _“How can someone be so beautiful?”_ and Max would hook her arm around Chloe’s and whisk her away, gliding across the ballroom towards an inevitable fate, only looking back over her shoulder to answer, _“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”_

 

* * *

 

Max had never seen Nathan looking anything other than pale and sickly and furious. She had witnessed the way he ate his food – careful not to take a bite too many, _one, two, three,_ down the hatch – and how he flinched when someone got too close, immediately on alert and ready to run back to safety. During her time at Blackwell Academy, Nathan was the hairless mouse dodging in and out of the cracks in the foundation, avoiding the paw that swiped for his tail, slippery but lost in the maze, with rosy red eyes and a manic snicker. He was hidden but always seeing, his little tip-toes racing inside the walls and floors, desperately searching for the exit sign. But there was no way out, not after he fell for the baited trap.

To witness Nathan in a state other than distress was as relieving as it was unsettling. Months ago, Max would have wanted to slap the health out of him, demand he suffer enough that it matches her own. She would have wanted to tear open his ribcage and turn his bones to dust, so the void in her chest where her heart was ripped out wasn’t the only place where her pain existed. But he had already suffered enough to last a lifetime, and she wasn’t going to hold his mistakes over his head then ask him to sit pretty for a reward. It was unfair to request anything other than an apology.

They spent nearly an hour in silence, sitting in the waiting room of a psychiatric facility that smelt a little too much like pine trees and chemicals, before Nathan said much more than was prompted of him. His frail hands curled and uncurled, worrying his tail between them, teeth chattering and ears twitching, yet he spoke. He held eye contact and kept himself from rocking back and forth on the edge of his seat, a move that wouldn’t have been lost on Max, as she had spent countless sleepless nights in the same position of vulnerability.

After Nathan finished his speech – some of it sounding rehearsed and hollow like an answering machine, but genuine in a way that most people never would have guessed he was capable of – another beat of silence stretched between them, like a freezing ocean. It was rocking them back and forth, tempting Max to dive, but she knew the plunge would feel like needles and that once she hit the water it would ice over and the suffocating ache in her lungs would return. The sea life hustle-bustled around them, preparing for the inevitable, unaware of what they both had lost, yet obliviously lying out the pieces for what they both were capable of gaining. Balance.

Max was the first to carve her way out from under the icy emptiness of their conversation, but only long enough to say that she was sorry, too. Nathan nodded. His small smile matched her own crooked one.

 

* * *

 

The leaves swarmed Max’s feet, the occasional gust of wind doing nothing to help her maneuver her way across the field. Even though the grass was beginning to fade into a burnt golden hue, it continued to gladly soak up the sun’s light, grinning in the face of destruction, knowing that when the snow melted away into springtime that it would win both the battle and the war.

As she walked, one foot steadily placed in front of the other, she let her fingertips brush the tops of the tall stalks growing in abundance every few feet, little flowers barely visible as the cool air demanded to be feared. She smiled, an almost invisible quirk of her lips, as the flies zipped past her.

Chloe’s grave was not adorned by a fanciful headstone; instead, a bronze plaque marked the location of her resting place, sleeping sound to the left of her father. Large, blocky letters spelt out her name and birthdate, followed by the inscription _Beloved Daughter and Cherished Friend_. It would have been easy to miss the location if the spot was not already decorated in cheap bouquets and framed photographs left by people who were never close with her, but touched by her presence in the least. The most impressive display was the tall, glass vase holding a plentiful bunch of lilies, placed equidistant between the two Price’s graves. Joyce and David’s contribution, no doubt.

Max had the fleeting thought that they must have been grateful to see all of the visitor’s gifts this morning. For a moment she even wished she had accepted their offer to give her a ride, just to have seen their expressions when they all arrived at the gravesite, but she pointedly ignored the negative commentary that followed her small regret. There were more important things to worry about than trying to change the past.

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she bent down and retrieved her gift from her pocket. She clutched onto it tightly, as if it would be swept away before she could return it to its rightful owner. The envelope was stained from years of misplacement and absentminded children’s fingers, but still held onto its pinkish color and purple ink. It was addressed to nowhere, but clearly stated that it was _private property of Max and Chloe, do not open!_

As Max laid the envelope onto the grass, she wondered if they were happy in the other realities, if they had somehow managed to make it over the river and through the woods fast enough to escape the Big Bad Wolf. If their hands were clasped tightly beneath their red capes as they slipped in and out of parties and pools and classrooms and trucks with an engine that should have given out long ago. She hoped that they made it out alright, if not unscathed, somewhere in the universe. It’s a nice thought. And for now, it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u so much for reading!!


End file.
